A Man of Independent Means
by Nell McKeon
Summary: Post Amnesty - Written as a story challenge. WARNING: Major character death. A dark alternative ending to Terms: Part One – Decision. Twenty years after being awarded amnesty Heyes is a successful businessman. Can money buy happiness?


_This is actually the second story I ever wrote, the first being the first chapter of Terms. It was written for the challenge prompt "Independence". There are issues with it and I contemplated revising it, but it would have needed a complete rewriting and I just wasn't that ambitious._

 **A Man of Independent Means**

June 21, 1903

The last of the guests departed from a fashionable mansion in Denver several hours ago. Inside servants unobtrusively turned out lights, tidied a stray item here and there on the way to their quarters for the night. Stillness descended upon the household.

A tall thin man impeccably dressed in a black, hand tailored suit sat at a large walnut desk. He was deep in remembrances as he absently swirled his aged single malt scotch in a heavy crystal tumbler. His sharp brown eyes gazed without seeing at the walls of books lining the study.

"Mr. Heyes"

"What do you want Walter," the gentlemen answered without glancing at the paneled pocket doors where he knew his personal assistant would be standing.

"Is there anything else you require before I leave, Sir?"

"No, Walter, you will not be needed tomorrow until nine. Wait, please let New York know that I have decided to delay my return there. Have them send all pressing correspondence and matters that need my attention to the Denver office. Let the New York house staff know as well. And Walter, thank-you for your efforts and assistance in planning the memorial. I do appreciate it."

"Thank-you sir, good night" The efficient hardworking assistant turned from the doorway and pulled the doors closed noiselessly.

Hannibal Heyes sipped at the scotch, reached across his desk and slowly pulled the heavy bronze sculpture toward him. He lovingly ran his tapered fingers lightly over the surface. Heyes was enormously pleased with the piece and originally planned to display the sculpture in the corporate headquarters of Hannibal Heyes Holdings, Inc. located in New York City but now he thought he would find a place of honor in his Denver home. It was more fitting to keep the memory in the West. He congratulated himself with the choice of Frederic Remington, whose paintings he had seen and admired at a New York Art gallery. The artist was initially reluctant to accept the commission since sculpture was a new media for Remington but Heyes was persuasive both in words and compensation.

The bronze figure represented a cowboy in a floppy hat, right hand resting on the butt of a colt 45 tied to his right thigh mounted on a cantering horse. Heyes had spent hours talking with the artist, commenting on sketches with the resultant figure perfectly capturing Kid Curry's looks and personality. Heyes heart ached and rejoiced when he first studied the bronze. The ache only intensified during today's memorial until Heyes sought refuge in his study.

"Hannibal, are you in there?" the cultured voice of his wife drifted through the opening doors.

"Yes Constance, I'm here."

"I am retiring soon. Will you be joining me tonight? If so, I'll leave the lamp down low. If not, I'll have the bed turned down in your room."

Constance, never Connie, posed seductively in the doorway, a vision of silk-wrapped dark beauty even in her late forties. Beauty that hid a sharp intelligence and a ruthless business sense that rivaled Heyes own. Constance knew how to use every available asset to further their objectives and frequently did. She could flirt, smolder, have men young and old falling over themselves while she and Heyes took over their companies and amassed a considerable fortune.

"I'll join you later Constance."

Heyes watched his wife of fifteen years turn and leave. Their union, he reflected, could be described more in business terms then in terms of the heart. Constance was the widowed daughter of a business rival that he met at a cocktail party in Denver. They discovered that they had mutual cynical outlooks on life, his born of adversity and life experiences, hers created by having ambitions and options limited by her gender. A drive to gain wealth and influence coupled with a physical attraction led to the merger in matrimony as well as a merging of businesses under the HHH, Inc. umbrella. It was a profitable union in the business sense but not in the home.

Their union had not produced children. The lack of progeny did not disturb Constance since she kept a figure many women her age envied. Heyes had rationalized the lack of heirs as a just reward since he judged himself a failure in the one effort he had made to raise a child. It did not matter in his heart or his mind that he had been little more than a child himself. Jedediah Curry's life was cut short and Heyes was to blame.

The scotch finished, Heyes rose from the leather chair and walked across the room to stand before the bookshelves. His hand reached for a volume of "Tom Sawyer" and pulled it from the shelf to push the lever hidden behind down. A panel of books slid into the ceiling to reveal a safe. Practiced steady fingers spun the dial effortlessly to open the safe. Heyes reached in and pulled out a large black velvet pouch and an old brown cowboy hat. He returned to the desk and removed a worn leather gunbelt and Colt 45 from the pouch. Opening a desk drawer he withdrew a small box of gun cleaning supplies and proceeded to oil the revolver.

Tomorrow a representative from the Smithsonian Institution would be arriving to take possession of the items along with the rest of Kid Curry's meager possessions. Heyes' battered black hat, handwritten recreated notes on how to open a Pierce and Hamilton '78 and Heyes' amnesty papers would be going as well. Heyes had been surprised when the Smithsonian solicited the donation and had at first refused the request. The representative politely and patiently explained that the American public was interested in the "wild west" that had all but disappeared. The publicity surrounding the granting of Heyes' petitions regarding Kid Curry had spurred an increased curiosity about outlaws. The eager young man tried flattery, most wanted men in the west and went on and on. He next tried listing what the collection had already obtained. He explained that the focus of the exhibit is to present a balanced account of the men and the outlaw life. Eventually the eager young man's naïve earnestness accomplished the Smithsonian's goal.

Heyes was aware that those who only knew him since the amnesty would find it hard to believe him capable of sentimentality. He could only blame himself. After the initial shock and rush of emotions at his partner's actions subsided, Heyes had applied himself with a zeal reminiscent of his early outlaw years to obtaining wealth and influence to purchase one way or another his partner's freedom. As far as Heyes was concerned he only had one partner in his life.

He reluctantly used the ten thousand dollars Kid had arranged for Heyes as a stake. As a free man his reputation of a first class poker player gained him invitations to high stakes poker games throughout the west. The fraternization with the wealthy businessmen across poker tables enabled Heyes to choose investment opportunities wisely, gain business acumen and forged advantageous contacts. The ten thousand steadily grew. Heyes gradually bought stock and engaged in legal robbery as he took over established business. The ex-outlaw and Constance accumulated and diversified the holding company's portfolio. The ten thousand dollars representing the bounty money on Kid Curry still sat in a yellowing envelope in the back of the hidden safe, Heyes never had the chance to hand over the funds to its rightful owner.

The ex-outlaw finished cleaning the gun and returned the items to their designated spots. He exited the room and headed to the sweeping center hall staircase. Heyes hesitated at the bottom stair and instead walked purposefully back through the study and out the French doors to a brick paved walkway lined with still lit lights.

* * *

From a large gauze draped second story window Constance watched her husband make his way along the paths and disappear through a rose covered archway into a secluded area of the extensive gardens. She found herself wanting to join him but knew her presence would not be welcome.

"Hannibal, please let me in, don't shut me out for the rest of our lives." Constance whispered to the warm summer night.

When did she start to love him, really yearn to share his pain and help assuage the hurt, anger and guilt that so damaged him? She couldn't say but she did know that a marriage which started with each using the other to obtain their own goals was no longer enough.

So she helped in his quest. Constance wrote letters, used her considerable charms on key political and business figures and maintained a presence even when she was ignored and not wanted by Hannibal. She secretly rejoiced when years of effort came to fruition and Hannibal was notified his last petition was granted. Constance had insisted upon a memorial in celebration. She judged Hannibal Heyes had punished himself in solitary suffering long enough. The keen business mind hidden under the still dark tresses turned to more personal matters and had put her plans in motion with the help of the efficient but reluctant Walter.

Walter and Constance planned and schemed. Walter tracked down the people and addresses to go with the names she heard long ago and never forgotten during those rare instances when Hannibal had revealed bits and pieces of his past. They had sent out the expensive engraved invitations, which did not appear on the official guest list. Constance was prepared to deal with the consequences.

Constance savored the memory from this evening as she parted the curtain to gain a better view of the garden. Her husband's equanimity was certainly rattled as his unexpected guests were announced. Lom Trevors, Harry Briscoe, Stephen and Clementine Ryder, and Robert and Georgette Bronsen all came early. Patrick and Carlotta McCreedy, whom Constance had met before, made the trip from Texas despite Big Mac's failing health. The Reverend Spencer stated he would be honored to attend and would certainly consent to speak during the ceremony. The eulogy he delivered was a moving addition and definite improvement over the clergymen Hannibal had arranged. The aged Sister Julia was accompanied by a younger Sister Mary, that Hannibal kept calling Sister Molly. Wheat Carslon, Kyle Murtry, Lobo, Hank and a man named Preacher neither Walter nor Constance could locate. S. Saunders, Silky O'Sullivan and James Guffy had all passed on according to information Walter obtained.

All the ghosts from the past proved grateful, gracious and willing to share their memories with Constance. They all displayed genuine affection for "Kid" Curry and even surprisingly for her husband who had in most cases not spoken to his old friends for close to 18 years. She looked to the thousands of brilliant stars in the heavens and silently recited a long suppressed prayer for her and Heyes' future.

* * *

Heyes trod the brick pathways, meandering through the extensive gardens and paused at the rose covered arch. Today's event was a culmination of years of planning and lobbying. Where did he go from here? One foot stepped slowly through the archway followed by the other as his body seemed to grow numb, his mind drifted back to a bitterly cold February.

Heyes had been profitably playing poker in San Francisco when he received a telegram from Lom Trevors. Heyes could clearly remember standing outside Silky's shivering from the icy winds coming off the bay reading the words, " _Have letter for you from Wyoming Territorial Prison. Stop. Sending to Silky. Stop. Lom_ " He eagerly awaited the letter's arrival thinking Kid had finally received permission to write a letter. Heyes had written so many of his own and needed to know if Kid had been able to read any of them as he never received a reply. He no longer made the monthly fruitless trips to the prison on visiting day only to be bitterly disappointed when he was informed that Curry did not have visiting privileges and was turned away.

When the letter finally arrived Heyes opened the official envelope with shaking hands. _I regret to inform you of the death on February 20, 1885 of Jedediah Curry. Cause of death was pneumonia. Mr. Curry was interred in the Wyoming Territorial Prison Cemetery on February 21, 1885. You have our condolences._ Heyes's heart froze as solid as the icicles hanging above his head.

Heyes had very little memory of the trip to Laramie. He vividly recalled arriving at the prison. Warden Hardston was patronizing, arrogant and did not grant Heyes's request to visit Kid's grave under any circumstance. Heyes left the prison outwardly calm and inwardly seething with a grim determination to discover the facts surrounding Kid's death. What he did find out, after the judicial distribution of funds into poorly paid guard's pockets, offered little comfort.

Kid had tried to defend a young prisoner working alongside him from an undeserved attack by one of the more vicious guards. Curry had been brutally beaten, sentenced to thirty lashes with a cat-o-nine-tails and thrown in an unheated underground, completely dark, small solitary cell for ten days. Kid Curry was carried out of his temporary tomb wrapped in a canvas bag and buried in one of the waiting graves that are dug in the fall for such circumstances. There were no mourners, no service and only a small rough wooden cross to mark his passing. Heyes's cousin, best friend, partner, and brother in all but blood had died gasping for breath in the dark, alone, and in pain after spending nineteen months in hell.

The last petition, a posthumous pardon granting Kid Curry freedom, was signed only two months ago after years of languishing in Wyoming bureaucracy. Jedediah Curry was newly laid to rest this afternoon among beauty, light, and tranquility as a free man.

Hannibal Heyes stood before a thick glass door of a small marble building and tried to stop the memories that came flooding back in a tidal wave seeking to drown him in new sorrow. Heyes could no longer keep the impenetrable barrier surrounding his heart against the onslaught of emotions he hadn't experienced in years. He entered the softly lit mausoleum, sat shakily on the marble bench and ran his hands over his eyes in an effort to physically stop the tears that were forming. Heyes dragged his glistening brown eyes to the wall across from him. He could not read the inscription but didn't need to since he wrote the words etched in marble. The tightly-controlled, rational man who was never given to emotional displays took two staggering steps across the room, dropped to his knees and raised his hand to the marble. Still sensitive fingers traced the etching as tears trailed down his cheeks.

"Kid, Jed, I never got to say good-bye. I never said thank-you. I never told you what you meant to me. I loved you Kid. I hope you knew that but I never told you" came out in choked whispers.

Silk covered arms wrapped around Heyes' shoulders. Hannibal raised his head; his anguished brown eyes met green ones. Heyes looked deep into Constance's eyes and recognized compassion, love and fear. Had they always been there? Constance gently and steadily pulled Hannibal into a hug; held him close and rocked him in comfort as twenty years of pent up emotions erupted in great sobs of release.

Constance knelt at Hannibal's side and shared his pain. In spite of herself, Constance felt hope for herself and for her husband. Just as Jedediah Curry had finally found a type of freedom maybe she and Hannibal would find independence from their self-made solitary prisons. Dare she hope for a marriage in more than name?


End file.
